ink if you come this way, sir, you will find her with Sir Malcolm."

"_Sir_ Malcolm!" exclaimed Ned. "My God, so he is!"

To himself he added:

"And she will soon be Lady Cromarty!"

But the thought did not seem to exhilarate him.

He was led towards the billiard room, an addition to the house which lay
rather apart. The door was half open and through it he could see that
the blinds had been drawn down, and he could hear a murmur of voices.

"They are in there, sir," said Bisset, and he left him.

As Ned Cromarty entered he caught the words, spoken by the new baronet:

"My dear Cicely, I depend on your sympathy----"

He broke off as he heard a footstep, and seemed to move a little apart
from the chair where Cicely was sitting.

The two young people greeted their visitor, Cicely in a voice so low
that it was scarcely audible, but with a smile that seemed, he thought,
to welcome him; Sir Malcolm with a tragic solemnity which no doubt was
quite appropriate to a bereaved baronet. The appearance of a third party
seemed, however, to afford him no particular gratification, and after
exchanging a sentence or two, he begged, in a very serious tone, to be
excused, and retired, walking softly and mournfully. Ned noticed then
that his face was extraordinarily pale and his eye disturbed.

"I was afraid of disturbing you," said Ned. He was embarrassed, a rare
condition with him, which, when it did afflict him, resulted in an
impression of intimidating truculence.

Cicely seemed to shrink a little, and he resolved to leave instantly.

"Oh no!" she said shyly.

"I only wanted to say that if I could do anything for you--well, you've
only to let me know."

"It's awfully kind of you," she murmured.

There was something so evidently sincere in this murmur that his
embarrassment forthwith left him.

"Thank Heaven!" he said after his outspoken habit. "I was afraid I was
putting my foot in it. But if you really don't mind my seeing you for a
minute or two, I'd just like to say----"

He broke off abruptly, and she looked up at him questioningly.

"Dash it, I can't say it, Miss Farmond! But you know, don't you?"

She murmured something again, and though he could not quite hear what it
was, he knew she understood and appreciated.

Leaning against the corner of the shrouded billiard table, with the
blinds down and this pale slip of a girl in deep mourning sitting in a
basket chair in the dim light, he began suddenly to rea